All That I Know
by Cheshire6845
Summary: A Janeway POV where she contemplates her current circumstance. Angst.


Disclaimer: Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of Paramount and TPTB. The plot is the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended. Rated PG.

Thank you Quantumsilver for the correction of about 50 different verb tenses and misplaced commas (or lack thereof)…I hope you'll forgive me for the ones I played with after you fixed them. In other words, any mistakes are mine.

All That I Know by Cheshire

I know nothing.

After a bit of struggle I finally get my eyes open. Correction: I manage to get my left eye open. All I see are blurs of light and dark. The light blur is almost touching my eye but I can't tell what it is. The dark swirls behind it are giving it proper shadow.

I blink my eye and the light blur distinguishes itself a little more. It looks familiar and I feel like I should be able to tell what it is. I blink again and then concentrate on bringing the shape into focus.

I'm looking at my thumb. Luckily it is still attached to my hand from what I can tell. I concentrate more and realize my left arm is draped over a stony surface and my hand is hanging free with my thumb almost touching my nose.

I stare fascinated at the dirt and grime clinging to my hand. It almost looks as though I am wearing a dusty glove. That must be why my mouth is so dry. The dust coats everything in a white powdery layer. Including me.

Movement on my hand catches my wandering attention. I watch dumbfounded as a red drop drags a line across my hand. The red drop becomes darker as I watch it cut a path through the dirt on my skin. The drop winds its way down until it hangs from the tip of my thumbnail. After an eternal moment, the drop releases from my thumb and lands on the stony surface to rest just below my hand.

The red drop appears black now as it sets on the surface of the stone. I watch as it attempts to seep into the surface it now finds itself upon. Another drop joins it doubling its size. My gaze returns to my thumb just in time to see another drop join the first two. The red streak on my hand has widened and branched off in more than one direction. Everywhere the red touches, it makes new paths across the dust and grime covering my hand.

Staring at the stony surface my hand is draped over, I realize I can feel that same surface below my cheek. I think the dust must cover my face as well. I feel a small itch starting at my hairline and moving along to my chin. I think of the red droplet dragging a path across my face growing darker as it moves.

My thumb twitches and I refocus my attention again. It doesn't hurt. I look at it now and bend it slowly inwards towards my palm. It feels stiff and unused and the red path painted across it becomes disturbed as the knuckle flexes. I slowly curl my fingers until they are holding my thumb against the fleshy part of my palm, but I don't make them stay there. I release letting the droplets resume their original trails and continue their descent to the ever growing puddle that my thumb almost dips into now.

I want to see more than my hand. That will require moving my head. I'm not entirely sure this is going to be possible, but I concentrate and attempt to lift my head. The only movement I manage is to momentarily take the pressure away from the side of my face. The effort is too much and the pressure returns as I settle back onto the stony surface. The surface is not smooth and I could feel the skin of my cheek sticking to the rough surface as I tried to lift my head. I am sure there are many drops of red pooling there.

I know a few things now.

The stony surface is all around me. My arm is lying on some of it, but more of it is lying on me. I can feel the granite texture pressing against the top of my head pulling against strands of my hair. There is more pressing against the back of my neck restricting my movement as if I had the strength to resist it. There are stones across my shoulders and back. They are adding to my natural weight keeping my other arm pinned beneath me continually pushing the stones I lie upon further into my skin. I know nothing below my waist. I'm sure there are stony surfaces and drops of red there as well, but I cannot feel them or see them. Nor do I want to.

The red drops filling the black pool beneath my fingertips have slowed. The drops that are coming now follow the paths that have already been mapped out. The paths have begun to congeal and the new drops simply travel on top of and over the old until they reach their destination. I haven't determined where the drops are coming from, but I know where they are going. The black puddle has grown and now it begins to move. I watch fascinated as its movements are directed towards me by the tilt of the stony surface. I feel the sticky sucking sensation of the droplets when they reach my cheek. The pool finds my face to be a dam and builds itself against it. The itch from my chin seems anxious to join its brethren.

I know pain now.

Tired of looking at my thumb I attempt to raise the arm that is lying in front of me. I find the source of the red droplets. I also discover that my vocal cords, despite being covered in dust, are still able to produce a sound akin to the yelp a dog makes when you step on its foot. Nothing has stepped on my arm but it is crushed just the same. I am able to turn it just enough to see the sharp end of broken bone poking through my skin. I don't attempt to look further.

I can also feel my other hand trapped beneath me. I'm able to move my fingers slightly and upon moving them I realize they feel different from everything else. I can feel grime and grit settling on my exposed skin but the hand trapped near my stomach feels warm and wet. I move my fingers as much as possible, questing for the source of the warm slippery liquid. The tips of my fingers brush against what feels like a steel rod. The rod does not feel dusty either. I think the rod must have once been embedded in the stone structures in order to help support them. It doesn't feel as though it is supporting _me_ in any way but it is no less embedded inside me.

And my head of course. I have to continually concentrate to refocus my vision. A concussion would explain this phenomenon. A concussion would also explain the throbbing pain that encases my entire skull in a vise grip. The only good thing I can think about the situation is that the throbbing, while still intense, appears to be slowing down. Each pulse of it reminds me of someone playing a timpani drum while standing inside my head, but at least now the beat they are pursuing is slowing in its intensity. Somewhere in my mind, I do not think this is a good thing, but I'm not sure.

I know I am not the only one here.

There was the absolute deafening noise of the columns and ceiling crashing all around me. Now, as the dust filters down in the rays of sunlight, the noise stops. It's as if someone has simply turned the sound off. I wonder if it is just me. I'm fairly certain my hearing has deserted me until I realize I can hear my own breathing. The ragged gasps that I produce resonant quite clearly. I can also hear the scrape of my tattered uniform as my body settles against the stones. Slowly, I realize it isn't my hearing that has departed. Although, moments later I wish it had.

The silence is wrenched away from me. It assaults me the same way a bright light in a darkened room attacks the senses. I desire nothing more than to retreat from the sound, but I have no where to go. The screams of the injured assail me. It starts out as one or two small sounds, but it begins to grow in intensity. One scream seems to be particularly close to me but it soon becomes a sob. I desperately want to offer comfort. To reach out and help. To console and to make right. But I can do none of these things. I know if I open my mouth, my voice will join those of the injured. The desperate. This I cannot do; I won't allow myself to do. Surely, there are people here in greater need of help than me.

The sounds of the dying begin to level off. The occasional outburst echoes out across the hall assuring me that although my hearing is again muffled it is still functioning. The sobbing close to me has stopped. The silence of the stones is once again my only company.

I know how I got here.

It was such a shame because everything had been going so smoothly. We were finished. The trade agreement had gone exceedingly well. The banquet had been held the night before, and as soon as I gave my final thanks to the ambassador this morning, Voyager would have been departing. Resuming our course for home. I beamed down alone for the five minute farewell audience with the ambassador.

I should've known better.

All of us attending the banquet had felt small tremors the night before, but the locals referred to them as a part of their daily life. It was commonplace to them. The tremors were as natural to them as the slight shift before inertial dampeners kick in is to us. The tremors felt the same to me as when my old knee injury would catch. Nothing to worry about. Nothing to take notice of. Just a simple misstep and then back to normal.

As I walked towards the ambassador, I felt the catch and thought nothing of it. I reached his side and took his hand in greeting before I heard anything. Having grown up in Indiana under a weather control net, I had never actually experienced a natural disaster, but my grandmother had told me plenty of stories about tornados ripping through the countryside without a moment's notice. She had described the roar that accompanied them and served as the only warning before your world was turned upside down. She had never known how to describe an earthquake to me, having never experienced one, but I can only imagine that the sound of Mother Nature in a fury must sound similar whether it is wind or soil.

The ambassador's smile faltered as we both looked up to see the chandelier above our heads begin to sway. His guards rushed into the room and corralled us towards the back hallway. I tried to protest, but no one was paying any attention. I was rushed along with the ambassador in a tide of people pushing to get out of the high ceiling entranceway. The guards claimed that it was a more sound structure. That was hardly a comfort when the seismic roar became deafening and the columned structure of the hallway began to tremble around us.

I felt the smooth surface of the stone floor buck beneath my boots and I fell hard to the floor. I scrambled back up quickly not knowing where exactly I was trying to run to and then I saw it happen. The column at the end of the hall seemed to bend over as if bowing to the people that ran past it. It could only bend so far.

It crumbled into chunks and pieces, throwing itself on the people below and piling up in front of the exit. It seemed to pull the ceiling down with it as though inviting it to play on the floor with it. I managed to look to my right and see that the column had indeed started a domino effect as all the columns of the hall began to bend towards the middle. I stepped towards the side intending to get as close to the base of the column as I could. The wave of people hindered my movements and no one listened to my attempts to get them to join me. I looked up at the column as I worked my way closer to it. It was almost as if we had an agreement that it would not fall until I reached its side.

I almost made it.

I know what they'll say.

It was bound to happen. I'm surprised it didn't happen sooner. She always took needless risks. There was no reason for her to be there. We should've stopped her. It's our fault. It's my fault.

One person in particular will blame himself. He'll berate himself for having ever let me out of his sight. But it was only supposed to be for five minutes. I even had plans to have lunch with him after I got back. Guess that's off the agenda now. I wonder if he'll forgive me. It's not my fault - really. This time anyway. How was I supposed to know that a culture accustomed to earthquakes would pick today to have the worst quake in their history? Although I suppose here, they don't call them 'earth' quakes. Nor do I _know_ if this was the worst seismic activity they've ever had. Maybe they have just gotten really good at rebuilding.

I _should_ have known though. I knew not to cross my legs while sitting. I knew to address their ambassador as 'his honor'. I even knew that I should only eat with one hand while keeping the other resting on the table. But I knew nothing about the seismic history of the planet. I had no idea, until they told us that their buildings are situated on cushions of air in order to minimize damage caused by the less severe planet vibrations. I wish I had known. I would've found that fascinating.

I know regret.

As I lie here fighting off that everlasting sleep, I think back on how many times I would have given my left arm to be able to rest. It's been a long journey. I've been weary. The doctor constantly berates me for my coffee consumption, my poor eating habits, and my stress levels. He believes these all factor into my nearly constant insomnia. Maybe they do, but really, what am I supposed to do about them? The fourth pip ensures elevated stress levels. Add to that, the constant surprises of the Delta quadrant. I drink coffee in order to remain vigilant. To remain aware. Focused. And if I ate as much as he wants me to, I'd have trouble fitting into the turbolifts. No, the reason I can't sleep is because I can't stop thinking.

Constantly. Incessantly. I reassess everything. All the time. I may make split second decisions, but that doesn't mean I don't reconsider them later. Take the time to look at all the factors I may have missed in the moment. I'm sure there are crewmen somewhere on the lower decks who believe me to be infallible. Never doubting my abilities. The senior staff knows better. They've caught me before when I've faltered from the path. But some of those decisions continue to haunt me into the sleepless hours of the night.

I have rationalized most of the decisions over the years, and have almost convinced myself that I chose the right course. And even when I didn't, I at least chose the wrong course for the right reasons. I've comforted myself with this knowledge and I have lain to rest many possibly regrettable decisions.

But one regret remains as I lie here in the rubble. Just the one seems to be of real importance. It's the only decision that really matters at all. And it's utterly personal. After everything that has happened over the years, the one thing, the only thing I regret is a completely selfish desire left unfulfilled. My one single regret has nothing to do with saving a culture or stranding people away from their homes for the next seventy years. It has nothing to do with almost committing genocide against an entire species. I don't even feel regret for having almost killed someone simply out of anger. These are things I've reconciled. Those were regrets that were so important I've already addressed them. This one last regret is one I was simply afraid of. One that I thought I had all the time in the world to address.

Him.

I regret not touching him more. I regret not telling him exactly how I feel. After all I've done, I regret not facing down my own fears and telling him how much I love him. I regret that I won't have the chance to make this right. Because when all is said and done, there is one more thing I know.

I know I'm dying.

I can no longer feel the arm that is trapped beneath me. Nor can I feel the slippery wetness that had coated my hand. I don't miss the latter. I'm not cold. I simply don't feel anything, and the sensation or lack thereof is spreading until again I know nothing except my thumb. I can see it, but I don't feel it anymore. I move it, and disturb the red paths that have begun to dry upon my dusty skin, but I don't feel the flexing of the muscles inherent in the action. My vision is beginning to follow the lead of my other senses. It is slowly beginning to tunnel until all I can see is the tip of my thumbnail. It is cracked and broken. The red droplets have left their stain upon it.

My vision goes dark and I close my eye. I continue to breathe. The dust continues to coat my throat and my nostrils, but I hardly worry about it. I know these are the last breaths I'll ever take.

I know that scent.

It is the overbearing, crisp antiseptic smell of sickbay that I notice first, but as I breathe deeper I find the scent I am searching for. The scent I am longing for. I never realized before how much comfort I receive from that scent. I never acknowledged before that I expect it to be here. I need it to be here.

It is hardly noticeable and I realize that it is always there when I find myself under the doctor's care. But this time is different. This time I never expected to experience it again and that makes it all the more sweet. I don't want to lose it.

I open my eyes, both of them this time, and find him standing over me. He smiles. I want to reach up and wrap my arms around him. I want to tell him all the things I thought about while I died and the one thing I regretted. But I am already drifting off again. The fatigue of my body betrays me before I can tell him all of these things. I take a deep breath and catch the warm ambery scent that wafts off of him. I manage to smile and I see the concern in his eyes lighten. I let my eyes close.

I know that when I open them again he will be there.

I know when that happens; I will rid myself of my only regret.

I know that this time, I will live.


End file.
